


To Be Totally Locked Up By You

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22338811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: It's not a big deal.So, Clarke and Bellamy are sharing a Spotify account. They share plenty of things already. An apartment. A school. Buying rounds at the bar four blocks away. This is basically the same thing.Until. Octavia tells them about the playlist. Joint music and both of their listening habits on full display, some ridiculous algorithm that leaves Clarke, quite suddenly, feeling more exposed than ever, sharing emotions and feelings, all set to a soundtrack.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 30
Kudos: 194





	To Be Totally Locked Up By You

“Why are you and my brother sharing a Spotify account?”

Clarke nearly breaks the pencil in her hand. She lifts her head slowly, not entirely surprised to find Octavia staring expectantly at her, arms crossed tightly enough that it’s very likely doing permanent damage to her ribs. 

Possibly her lungs. 

It’s been a very long time since Clarke took those anatomy classes. 

“Well,” Octavia prompts, one eyebrow arching perfectly. “Yes or no question.”  
  
“How did you get in here?”  
  
“Did you not hear me come in?”

Clarke makes a contrary noise in the back of her throat, tugging her legs closer to her chest so she can rest her chin on her knees. She’s genuinely impressed with the state of Octavia’s right eyebrow. It appears to be defying gravity. 

She doesn’t really know enough about gravity either. 

Maybe she should make a list of the things she doesn’t know. 

That seems inevitably depressing. 

And Octavia is very clearly not going to move until she gets a response she wants, that stupid eyebrow and a pile of papers resting against her hip. Her phone is just barely hanging on in her back pocket, the soft vibration barely audible over the music coming from Clarke’s laptop speakers and the creaky pipes in their bathroom. 

Bellamy is in the shower. 

Clarke is at least sixty-seven percent positive Octavia planned her ambush that way. 

“How do you even know about Bellamy’s Spotify account?” Clarke asks, burrowing further into the corner of the couch. “And seriously, did you pick our lock?”  
  
That eyebrow should be studied. 

“I have a key,” Octavia drawls. “Obviously. So, your lock is fine and you can stop trying to deflect the important part of—”  
  
“—Why are you here?”  
  
Octavia gnashes her teeth, but there’s not really any threat there and Clarke only huffs slightly when she tosses her sketchbook on the coffee table. Because she knows that expression. The phone stops ringing. Only to start again. 

“How many places are you going today?” Clarke asks knowingly, pointing at the open spot next to her. 

There’s another round of huffing and flailing legs, Octavia’s left foot nearly colliding with both of Clarke’s knees, but that’s also impossibly familiar and nearly comfortable and—

“He thinks I should have a wedding cake,” Octavia mumbles. “Like an actual cake. Apparently it’s very historic—”  
  
“—Oh my God what an idiot.”  
  
“—There’s ancient nonsense involved and something about how that proved you were rich or something—”  
  
“—In Rome?”  
  
Octavia hums, eyes falling closed like she’s resigning herself to the horrendous ordeal of her older brother buying her a wedding cake. And, really, it’s almost nice. That’s a lie. It’s better than nice and just as expected as Octavia’s flailing limbs. 

Because for as long as Clarke Griffin has known Bellamy Blake, since she met Octavia in an intro to stats class they both hated, she’s known several things about him. 

One, he loves his little sister. More than anything. Two, he likes taking care of people. Octavia, especially, but at some point that also started to include Clarke, which is another nice thing and another vaguely overwhelming thing and—she doesn’t think about that. It is fine. Three, that same protective streak makes him certain he has to _do things_ and provide things and that means driving Octavia crazy with possible wedding ideas. 

And that leads to thing four: he’s an idiot and a nerd in an endearing sort of way that makes Clarke sure he didn’t have to look up that fact about Roman wedding cakes. 

It also makes Clarke smile. 

She ignores whatever happens to Octavia’s face. 

“In Rome,” Octavia echoes. “Anyway that’s what we’re doing. Traipsing around the city and taste-testing cakes and—”  
  
“—That doesn’t sound too bad, honestly.”  
  
“Stop interrupting me, it will not distract me from my ultimate goal.”  
  
“Which is?”  
  
Octavia props herself up on her elbows, ignoring Clarke’s groan when she moves. “Do you know how expensive real wedding cakes are?”  
  
“That feels like a trick question. In Rome or—” Octavia sticks her whole tongue out when she responds, a noise that Clarke is sure will get stuck in her head for the rest of the day, The shower shuts off. 

And Clarke’s mouth doesn’t go dry, per se, but she’s only momentarily worried that everyone in the apartment can hear the way her heart speeds up, falling into rhythm with her perfectly curated Spotify playlist and it hadn’t been much more than a suggestion, a monetary decision that made sense because—

“Jesus fuck Bell, put clothes on!”

Bellamy grins, another shift of eyebrows that Clarke is genuinely starting to resent, rivulets of water falling down either side of his face and dripping towards the towel wrapped around his waist. “Did you break in here, O?”  
  
“Used her key apparently,” Clarke mumbles, hoping the heat she can feel rising in her cheeks isn’t obvious. 

Because thing number five Clarke has always know about Bellamy Blake is that she’s kind of..into Bellamy Blake. In a passing sort of way. That’s just happened to linger for years.

It’s his hair. 

It’s far too curly. 

It’s not—it’s more than that, it’s things one through four and a whole slew of other numbers she hasn’t come up with yet and how easy it’s been to live in the same space, both of them looking for roommates at the same time, mixing lives and remembering to buy creamer and always keeping an extra box of strawberry Special K in the back of the cupboard for breakfast-type emergencies, but Clarke likes to lie to herself and—

“Right, right, right,” Bellamy chuckles. “Well, she’s also ridiculously early.”  
  
Octavia scowls. “And standing here. Having a conversation you’re not actually a part of. Or invited to.”  
  
“Wow. Scathing.”  
  
“Do you wander around your apartment naked all the time?”  
  
“That’s not what’s happening. Obviously. Also, I live here. Why are you here so early?”  
  
“Just super psyched about cake.”  
  
“You’ll want to practice that some more before we leave. You might insult the baker in Brooklyn.”  
  
“You’re going to Brooklyn?” Clarke balks before she can stop herself, another noise out of Octavia that cannot possibly be good for her throat. 

“The bakery got really good reviews.”  
  
“Oh my God you looked up bakery reviews.”  
  
Bellamy tilts his head, more drops of water that are equal parts horrible and far too distracting to be fair. “Was that supposed to be a question?”

“No, no, I am not even remotely surprised that’s exactly what you did.”  
  
Endeared, maybe. Perpetually. But not surprised. 

Clarke doesn’t say that. 

Octavia is far too busy swinging her feet back on the floor, a slightly different look than earlier and Clarke glances down to make sure her stomach hasn’t actually dropped. She’s still retained enough anatomical knowledge to know that it is supposed to stay in her body. 

No drop. 

And yet. 

She can’t stop the butterflies or the nerves that rise up the back of her throat, another expression she’s far too familiar with. 

“Fine,” Octavia snaps. “We will go to Brooklyn. We will taste test all the cakes—there better be hummingbird cake—”  
  
“—Who do you think I am, O?” Bellamy mumbles. It gets him a well-deserved eye roll. 

Clarke’s going to bite her lip in half. 

“You and Clarke are sharing a Spotify account!” Bellamy blinks. Once, twice, runs his fingers through his hair and maybe it’s just a Blake thing, this seeming ability to twist their bodies in wholly unnatural ways. “Do you know what that looks like?”  
  
“Like I wanted to save a couple bucks a month? So it would be easier to do cake-type things?”  
  
“Phrase that differently,” Clarke suggests, but Bellamy just smirks and the towel thing is really starting to become a problem. The whole _liking_ him is becoming a problem. But she’s just as unsurprised that this is what Octavia wanted to talk about as she was that he looked up bakery reviews, so. 

“Also,” Bellamy adds, “Clarke already had Spotify premium. It made sense.”  
  
Octavia shakes her head. “You’ve got to live together to be on the same account.”

“I thought we already covered that you have a key to this apartment. The one where Clarke and I live. Together.”  
  
“It looks romantic. It looks—” Octavia waves a pair of clearly frustrated hands through the air. “—Domestic. Partnered and, like joint playlists and—”  
  
“—You know he gets unlimited skips now, right?” Clarke interrupts, a desperate attempt to end this conversation and, maybe, get Bellamy to put a shirt on. 

“Don’t forget the no ads,” Bellamy grins. “That’s been a godsend.”  
  
“What an old sentence. Also, you’re a podcast dweeb.”

“Informed, princess. There’s a difference.”  
  
“Yuh huh. Whatever.”  
  
“As always, your arguments are well-structured and articulate.”  
  
She flips him off. He grins. Octavia makes a noise previously unheard by human ears. 

“You two do know,” she hisses, “that everyone is talking now and—”  
  
“—You all need to find a hobby,” Bellamy groans. “And I did not tell you this to make you lose your mind.”  
  
Clarke perks up, something in the back of her brain startling at that particular string of words. “You told her?”

“Yeah. I mean—well, I know it’s not a ton of money saved, but it’s something and…” He trails off, dots of color on his face and eyes that are suddenly very preoccupied with the floor. “It was nice of you to offer. So, I looked up Brooklyn.”

The music gets louder. 

Clarke is sure. She’s not sure how, but it seems to swell, the beat settling under her skin and in between her ribs, wrapping around a stomach that refuses to stay where it’s supposed to, flipping and flopping and _feeling_ and, for a moment, she forgets Octavia is there. 

For a moment she smiles at Bellamy and he smiles at her and there’s no smirk, nothing except the way his eyes crinkle slightly, half a head tilt and damp curls falling and it’s good and great and then—

Octavia coughs. Pointedly. 

“Alright,” she sighs. “Well, I think it’s dumb and you guys should opt out of the joint playlist. It’s the absolute worst and definitely embarrassing.”  
  
“What?” Clarke asks. 

“Do you not know?”  
  
“You’re enjoying yourself.”

“Does Bell know about your secret Jonas love?”  
  
“What?!”  
  
Octavia throws her whole head back when she laughs, a sudden shift of emotion and the water falling off Bellamy’s elbow is starting to leave a small puddle on their floor. “Lincoln and I had it at first,” Octavia explains, “when we got it.”  
  
“You don’t think it’s a little hypocritical to be judging our Spotify purchases when you’ve got your own family plan?” Bellamy mutters.  
  
Octavia ignores him. “It’s some algorithm or something. I don’t know how it works, only that it takes all the songs you listen to all the time and turns it into a playlist that the entire family can listen to. In this case, that’s you guys. It’s very telling. About you know—you personally.”  
  
“I know Clarke personally,” Bellamy reasons. 

“Do you, though?”  
  
“I really don’t know how many times we can talk about this apartment.”

“You don’t have to. Because you didn’t know about the Jonas Brothers, did you?”  
  
“I really don’t—”  
  
“—Exactly,” Octavia says. “Music is...emotional. Certain songs for certain feelings, things that were playing in specific memories. It’s—it’s a whole new avenue to getting a person. Listen to this. Clarke, tell me the truth, how long did you spend making this playlist?”  
  
Clarke shrugs. “I don’t know. Not long, but it’s all kind of the same theme...Fleetwood Mac, Clapton, Jefferson Airplane. Good music to draw to.”  
  
“What’s the name of it?”  
  
“Of the playlist?” Octavia nods. Clarke scrunches her nose. “Music to sketch and avoid stress to,” she grumbles. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”  
  
Bellamy’s staring at her. Gaping. Like he’s never seen her and it would be overwhelming even with a shirt on. As it is, Clarke swallows back the emotion taking up residence in the back of her throat, ignoring just how exposed she feels and—  
  
“You’re stressed?” he asks softly. 

“Not really. Just end of the quarter and you know parents at the school—always think their kid deserves a better grade and I’ve got meetings all next week. So. It’s—” God, she’s going to kill Octavia. And write a strongly worded letter to Spotify. “I knew you guys were going out today. The music is a lot of my dad’s favorite stuff. Calms me down.”

Bellamy doesn’t say anything else, a blessing and the single worst thing in the world, but the ends of his mouth curl up slightly and Clarke should stop looking at his mouth. Octavia grins like she won something. 

“You should put clothes on Bell,” she says. “Don’t want to miss the baker in Brooklyn.”  
  
He salutes, all sarcasm and snark, eyes flitting back towards Clarke’s before he and Octavia leave and she lets the playlist repeat three times. He brings her back a slice of cake. 

* * *

Octavia texts them both the next day. 

Bellamy grumbles, cursing under his breath about the sanctity of Sundays and Clarke resists the urge to make jokes about the New York Times crossword puzzle or his obsession with finishing it every weekend. 

She reads the text instead. 

**Octavia Blake, 11:42 a.m.:** I think you guys should stage a bet. A music bet. About the joint playlist. 

**Clarke Griffin, 11:43 a.m.:** Stop calling it that.

“Now, you’ve done it,” Bellamy murmurs, not lifting his eyes from the newspaper. There’s a pen stuck behind each one of his ears. 

**Octavia Blake, 11:45 a.m.** : No. I won’t. It’s weird and you guys are weird and if you're going to commit to Spotify, then I think you should bet to see who can control the playlist. 

“Don’t answer,” Bellamy suggests. 

Clarke grunts. 

**Clarke Griffin, 11:46 a.m.** : What kind of bet?

**Octavia Blake, 11:47 a.m.:** You guys can set terms. But basically see who can annoy who first with their musical tastes and seize control of the playlist. 

“Why is your sister so violent at all times?” Clarke asks, but Bellamy just fills in another clue and it’s an admittedly interesting idea. She’s nothing if not perpetually competitive. 

**Octavia Blake, 11:47 a.m.:** One musical genius to rule them all.

* * *

She kind of forgets about the bet. 

Or, whatever. 

Clarke’s too preoccupied with those meetings and the Wallace family continues to be the worst family at Mt. Weather, old money and far too many expectations, even for art elective classes that she promises _won’t affect your child’s changes at the Ivy League, I swear_ , and her spine does not appreciate the way she’s sitting in her desk chair. 

She’s got a free period, is seriously considering slumping forward and taking a nap when she hears footsteps moving through her doorway. And Clarke’s got every intention of telling whoever it is to _fuck off_ , but she also knows those footsteps and she can hear a soft beat playing in the background, so her curiosity is piqued. 

“Have you listened to it?” Bellamy asks, brandishing his phone and his tie is a little crooked. 

“What are you doing here?”  
  
“Isn’t this the same conversation you had with Octavia?”  
  
Clarke rolls her eyes at the same time he drops onto the corner of her desk. She lets out a noise — a warning about paint and half-finished projects she’s got to move to the back of the room, but Bellamy just gives her a steady look and the beat is coming from his phone. “Plus,” he continues, “we just got back from the Museum—”  
  
“—Did you geek?  
  
“I was a responsible adult figure, princess.”  
  
She hums, doing her best to infused as much disbelief into the sound as she can. It’s an old nickname—older than the joint lease and breakfast emergencies, a past Clarke doesn’t always like to think about because they hadn’t always gotten along, but at some point the word had lost its sneer and gained its own look she’s started to covet just a bit. 

She really needs to move those eleventh-grade acrylics. 

“So, like on a scale of one to three-thousand, how much did you geek, then?”  
  
Bellamy clicks his tongue. “I’d never been to the Morgan. 3,000 B.C.! They had stuff from 3,000 B.C.! Scrolls and artifacts, actual jewelry. That is—”  
  
“—Old?”  
  
“Ancient,” he corrects. “Proper ancient.”  
  
“I’d give this geek out a two-thousand, six-hundred and forty-seven. Out of the previously discussed three thousand.”  
  
“Yeah, that seems about right.”

“And you had a soundtrack to go with it?” Clarke asks, nodding towards the still-musical phone. 

“Kind of. Spotify caught up.”  
  
“To?”  
  
“Us.”  
  
It takes a moment for Clarke to figure out what he means, but then she’s taking a deep breath and trying to remember what she listened to in the last five days. A ridiculous amount of My Chemical Romance. 

It’s been a week. 

“I didn’t peg you for pop punk,” Bellamy laughs. “Or is MCR a different genre? I was never really sure how that worked.”  
  
Clarke groans, sliding further down her chair until his smile threatens to stretch the muscles in his face. She can’t flip him off in school. 

“I think, technically, they’re more power punk,” Clarke says. “Or maybe emo—depending on what album the algorithm picked up on.”  
  
“What have you been listening to more of?”  
  
“Mostly Welcome to the Black Parade on loop.”  
  
“Is it Wallace? All your stress and—am I missing out on jam sessions?”  
  
“God, not if you call them that,” Clarke exclaims. He blushes again. She may make a list of all the times she can get Bellamy to blush. “But kind of. You’ve had those Model UN meetings after school, so I’ve been blasting music when I get home. I think Pike’s going to rat me out to the super eventually.”  
  
“Yeah, well, he’s a dick neighbor. So.”  
  
“And my options are limited. No scream-singing in the car when I take the Subway every day.”  
  
“You could start singing on the Subway.”  
  
Clarke chuckles, sitting up a little straighter. Her spine appreciates it. “Showtime on the downtown six.”  
  
“You might be able to make some money. Learn how to flip on the polls.”  
  
“I’d donate it to your cake fund. Also, did you call them MCR?”  
  
“Is that not right? O went through a very serious Hot Topic phase when she was in high school and I remember some of the lingo, so—”  
  
“—You are seriously the oldest man alive.”  
  
“Who’s your favorite Jonas Brother?”  
  
Clarke scoffs, the song changing and she doesn’t think it’s one of hers. “Frank Ocean?”  
  
“A genius.”  
  
“You know we don’t have to do this. The sharing playlist thing. It’s—well, O was being crazy, especially with that bet idea, and there’s got to be a way to opt out of it.”  
  
“Do you want to opt out of it?”  
  
The question seems to hang in the air around them. 

And Clarke isn’t sure why it sounds impossibly important, like some line they’re crossing and can’t come back from, but she can’t shake the feeling or the admittedly lyrical genius of Frank Ocean. She turns the music up. 

“It’s kind of fun, isn’t it?” Bellamy asks. “Seeing what changes it picks up on and how the playlist evolves with what we’re into.”  
  
“Please stop talking about the playlist like it’s a sentient being.”  
  
“Fair, fair. But, uh—what do you say?”  
  
“To?”  
  
His fingers find the back of his hair, pushing curls away from his eyes and he’d left earlier than her that morning. That explains the glasses. He only wears his glasses when he’s tired. 

Clarke knows that. 

She knows...a lot about Bellamy. And not. Nothing about Frank Ocean, at least. 

She’d like to. 

She likes Frank Ocean. 

She loves—

“If we only listen to the playlist, we’re not going to change it,” Clarke points out. 

“Sounds like you’ve got a plan.”  
  
“At the risk of giving O any credit, it’s an interesting idea, isn’t it? That we keep listening to our own music during the day or night or whatever, but when we’re coming home from school we listen to the joint playlist. See what happens with it.”

“And are we trying to influence the playlist?”  
  
“That’s up to you, I guess.”

“Yeah, ok. Try to influence the playlist, see what we can force the other person to listen to and—” He tilts his head, a forced casualness that makes Clarke widen her eyes. “—Whoever eventually seizes control of the playlist with the majority of their songs by...O and Lincoln’s wedding wins.”  
  
“Wins? Wins what?”  
  
“I don’t know. Something at home. Or one of us can just pay for the other’s Spotify account.”

Clarke twists her lips, considering it. Bellamy’s eyebrows fly up expectantly. “Yeah, ok. We judge the playlist based on what we hear when we’re leaving school.”  
  
“Makes sense. And what happens if we leave school together? You going to share headphones with me?”

“Only if you’ll join my showtime brigade.”  
  
“Good name.”  
  
“Is that a yes?”  
  
He grins — another one of hers, which is vaguely possessive and a little insane, but Clarke’s heart is doing its best to beat its way out of her chest as well, so she figures the whole thing is kind of a wash at this point. “I will definitely join your showtime brigade,” Bellamy promises. “If only because I’m pretty confident in my ability to flip from the top bars.”  
  
“No you’re not.”  
  
“I’ve got upper-body strength you couldn’t even imagine.”

“Sure, sure. When do we start with our musical experiment?”  
  
“Today.”  
  
“Today?”  
  
“Today,” Bellamy repeats, as students start to file into the hallway and Clarke’s not all that upset with how her free period turned out. “I will pick you at exactly 3:15, Ms. Griffin. Be prepared for an introduction in modern classics. And 90s hip hop.”  
  
“I’m going to listen exclusively to pop punk for the rest of the week.”  
  
“May the algorithms ever be in your favor.”

“Idiot,” she calls, but he’s already walking away and none of her students look remotely surprised.

* * *

Raven slides the glass across the bar without a word. She doesn’t have to use words. Her face is judgmental enough. 

Clarke sighs. “What?”  
  
“Did I say anything?”  
  
“Did you have to?”

Raven waggles a finger, more opinions and very obvious thoughts and Clarke knew it was only a matter of time. She blames intro to stats. It’s how she met Octavia, after all. Which is how she met Bellamy, which is how their friends group grew and evolved and there’s been good and bad and this bar and she’s fairly certain Raven has a very detailed bet with both Monty and Murphy about her and Bellamy. 

They all know about the Spotify playlist. 

“I guess not,” Raven admits. “Has anyone ever told you that your psychic tendencies are both terrifying and impressive?”  
  
“Not in so many words, no.”  
  
“What about your weird flirting rituals?”  
  
Clarke downs the drink — not sure if it’s actually meant for her and not worried either way. It burns the back of her throat, settling in the pit of her stomach with an almost audible thump, right next to her ever-expanding knowledge of Bellamy’s musical taste and his determination to shift the playlist. He’s been listening to nothing except It’s Tricky radio for the past three days. 

She’s got to figure out how to fix this. 

On several levels. 

“It’s not flirting,” Clarke argues. “Or a ritual. That’s weird.”  
  
“You’re telling me.”  
  
“Buy me another drink.”  
  
“No,” Raven says. “Tell me about the ritual.”  
  
“Stop calling it that!”  
  
Clarke’s voice rises of its own accord, drawing more than a few curious glances and Bellamy looks up from where he’s talking to Lincoln and Octavia. She smiles. She doesn’t mean to. 

Raven cackles. 

“Oh God,” she mumbles, the words barely that, “so, how screwed are you? Like ballpark.”  
  
“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Have you figured out that he secretly loves the Goo Goo Dolls?”  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
“You don’t?”  
  
“Oh my God,” Clarke groans. 

Raven reaches a hand out, a move that’s probably supposed to be comforting, but feels far too heavy when it lands on Clarke’s forearm. “Slow down on the liquor, Griffin. You’re a lightweight. And I know that because the one night I was there—don’t make that face.” Clarke definitely makes a face. She’s a little buzzed. Cage Wallace is setting up a meeting with the school board. About her art classes. “Anyway,” Raven adds, “I was kind of...looking to get out of there quick, but he had music playing and—”  
  
“—He played music while you guys were hooking up?”  
  
“Nah, he let me shower. He was reading.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“Anyway. I don’t think he knew that I could hear the music and it was definitely an entire Goo Goo Dolls album. Straight through. Not even a mix.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“You act like you’re not fascinated by that.”  
  
“Should I be?” Clarke questions, but it’s another badly formed lie and the energy under her skin is starting to make her restless. 

Raven nods. “Yes. Eventually that’s going to show up on the playlist too. I know. Or you could ambush him with the Goo Goo Dolls.”  
  
“What a sentence.”  
  
“Matchbox Twenty?”  
  
“Those are two different bands.”  
  
“Similar genres,” Raven reasons, Clarke waving down Miller for another round of something, _anything._ “And I’m trying to help you, here. Rule the playlist, rule the world, right?”  
  
“Or at least part of our roommate budget.”  
  
“Say roommates again like you don’t want to make out with his face.”  
  
“Jeez.”  
  
“Not an objection,” Raven points out at the same time Miller decides to show up. Clarke does her best to melt. It does not work. 

“It is not,” Miller adds. “And—just in case you were looking for some more information. He’s been asking about your musical tastes too.”  
  
Maybe Clarke is drunk. 

She wishes.

“Why?”  
  
“Search me,” Miller admits. “But a lot of it seemed to revolve around your favorite Jonas.”  
  
Clarke refuses to look at Raven for the rest of the night. 

* * *

It goes. Days, weeks, the rest of April. 

The music keeps on playing. Or, whatever. 

She listens to more My Chemical Romance. Bellamy goes through a pretty serious ten-day spiral over Weezer that leads them both down some 90s-alt rabbit hole, both of them bobbing in rhythm while they do the dishes on a Thursday night. 

At one point Octavia threatens to ruin it all, grabbing Clarke’s phone while they’re at the bar and announcing, “I am getting married, so I pick the music.” It ends with Carly Rae Jepsen on loop and a playlist that refuses to recover for the next two days. 

Clarke comes home to Bellamy humming Run Away With Me while he folds laundry in the living. She spends no less than five seconds processing that before she starts matching socks. 

They play the song fourteen times in a row. 

He counts. 

And she learns things. Raven had been right about the Goo Goo Dolls and Clarke girts her teeth when Bellamy asks “why are there so many Frozen songs on here now,” but that leads them to debating the merits of twisting traditional mythologies in Disney movies until Monty tells them to “shut up and drink.”

So, they do. 

And then, May happens. 

* * *

It’s not that Clarke often finds herself stressed enough to burst into tears as soon as she closes the apartment door behind her, but her stomach is churning and between self-important parents at school and her own parents—parent, singular—she’s an emotional, exhausted mess and—

“Oh, shit,” she sighs, sliding onto the floor. She hasn’t listened to the playlist all week. And she knows Bellamy won’t really care, but Clarke has started to depend on the structure and the ever-increasing knowledge and while she might not admit it, Arcade Fire probably would have done a pretty good job of psyching herself up for an afternoon with her mom. 

As it is, Clarke spent the better part of the last six hours listening to backwards compliments and questions about _that school of yours_ and not-so-humble brags about the cardiac center at Lenox Hill and the “opportunities you passed up, sweetheart.”

That sentence played on loop in Clarke’s head the entire train ride home. 

She sniffles, a quick lick of suddenly dry lips because she’s started breathing out of her mouth too and—

“Clarke?”  
  
Her head bumps the door when she snaps it up, Bellamy standing there with curls that desperately need to be cut and glasses and he’s wearing socks. It makes Clarke’s pulse speed up and slow down at the same time. 

She’s very glad she’s not a doctor. 

“Hey, hey,” he says quickly, rushing into her space and there are already tears on her cheeks. She hates that. Bellamy drops in front of her, knees cracking and a hand on her shoulder, staring at her like she’s going to fall apart or break in half and neither is true. Clarke is just mad. 

Pissed off, really. 

She’s angry at her mom and the cardiac center with its looming benefit, Clarke’s lack of a date some black mark on the whole thing, _apparently_ , far too many veiled suggestions that her own choices are less structured and real, because Clarke has made her own choices since she was eighteen and hated stats and she’s got a schedule and she can’t believe she forgot about the playlist. She’s harping on that.  
  
“And how was the esteemed Dr. Griffin today?” Bellamy asks knowingly. Clarke isn’t sure what sound she makes at that, but it might just be the audible version of gratitude, and he grins. 

Exactly like she wants him to. 

“Chock-full of opinions as always.”  
  
“Mmhm, I figured. You want to talk about it?”  
  
“Not really. She just—” Clarke grits her teeth, fighting against another wave of disappointment and could have been and every one of her muscles tightens when Bellamy’s lips ghost over her forehead. 

That’s absurd. 

It’s not the first time he’s done it. Or her. Quick displays of affection when things went well or things went bad and she can remember every single one. Which, honestly, is pretty telling, but she spent most of the day lying to her mom. 

This shouldn’t be any different. 

This is the complete opposite. 

“Go ahead,’ Bellamy mutters. 

“She’s just—God, Bell, she’s the worst and she’s so positive she’s right and I’m wrong, but she doesn’t even have the decency to really tell me I’m wrong and—” Clarke runs out of air. Bellamy brushes away the tears on her cheeks. “They’ve got this gala coming up and she wants me to come. She’s getting an award.”  
  
“Prestigious.”  
  
“Self-absorbed,” Clarke corrects. “The hospital she works at is awarding her for her work at the same hospital. I know it shouldn’t get to me. I do, but she kept talking, like she was going down a list of _make Clarke feel like garbage_ and—”  
  
“—You don’t deserve to feel like garbage, princess.”

“Tell me mom that.”

“Here, give me your phone.”  
  
Clarke’s skull can’t cope with much more of this, but there’s an earnest edge to his voice that she’s never heard before and her phone suddenly feels impossibly heavy in her pocket. She pulls it out, willing her fingers not to tremble. 

It takes him exactly twelve seconds to start playing music.

There’s no Arcade Fire. No Goo Goo Dolls or 90s hip hop. 

“Fleetwood Mac?” Clarke whispers, Bellamy’s soft hum of agreement in her ear and she’s sure, eventually, they’ll get up. She’s not in a rush. “If you play Landslide,” Clark warns, “I will cry even more.”

“I can cope with that.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds like another _thing_ in a way that things shouldn’t be things. Not with roommates and weird bets and—“You know I do have some rhythm. I could...if you don’t want to show up to this thing by yourself.”  
  
Clarke doesn’t pull her head off his shoulder. She’s not sure when her head landed on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“It wouldn’t suck so bad.”  
  
“That's not true at all.”  
  
“I’m serious. We could make fun of people. Come up with ridiculous backstories. Wow them with our Fred and Ginger ways.”  
  
“You sound very confident in your dancing talent.”  
  
He kisses the top of her hair. 

“That’d be nice,” Clarke says, voice a little scratchy and she’s not sure if that’s because of the day or the week or how goddamn comfortable his shoulder his. “And you’re going to ruin the playlist algorithm with this.”  
  
“I’ll live.”  
  
“Good.”

* * *

Dr. Abby Griffin’s eyes get very wide when Clarke and Bellamy show up at Gotham Hall. 

They dance. They drink undoubtedly expensive champagne. They dance some more. 

She smiles. 

A lot. 

And Bellamy doesn’t ask before handing Clarke one side of his headphones as soon as they slide into the Uber back home, her eyes fluttering shut while the music drowns out the sounds of the city on their way home. 

* * *

She gets really annoyed with him one week and plays the original Broadway cast recording of Cats every night while she’s asleep. 

He hates that she can’t ever remember to turn the AC off when she leaves the apartment. So, he plays Bizet from Carmen every time she walks in for a four-day stretch. 

It takes another two days for the playlist to realize neither one of them is mad anymore.

* * *

At some point around Memorial Day they both realize they love Ben Folds. 

Bellamy plays a ridiculous fake piano. 

Clarke sings the Regina Spektor parts on all their duets. 

* * *

They blast Killer Queen on a Saturday afternoon in June after Cage Wallace’s kid graduates. 

Clarke stands on the couch, hands thrown in the air and something akin to joy leaping up her spine, Bellamy shouting lyrics from the kitchen while he blends...something. 

It presumably has alcohol in it. 

Or, more alcohol. 

It’s a celebration. 

And it doesn’t take long for Pike to start banging on their shared wall, but neither of them move to turn down the music, just sing louder. Bellamy grins when Clarke throws a pillow at the wall, shouting “take that dick,” like Pike can hear them over Freddie Mercury. 

She almost falls over. 

It is...patently stupid and inherently romantic and Bellamy is impossibly solid behind her, cotton t-shirt not doing much to distract from the planes of his chest and—

“What was that about upper body strength?” she breathes.

Bellamy laughs into her shoulder blade, nosing at the top of her shirt, and there must be hair in his face, but he doesn’t seem all that upset by it, which is only messing with her head a little bit. His fingers splay across her hip, tugging Clarke back to the floor. 

His glasses are falling down the bridge of her nose. 

Clarke presses up on her toes, suddenly aware of how much bigger he is than her and how clear his eyes are when he looks at her — more earnest energy and a flick of his tongue between his lips, like he’s waiting for whatever she does next and only a little impatient. 

“A solid save.”  
  
Bellamy barks out a laugh, head falling close to Clarke’s, and it takes everything in her not to card her fingers through his hair. That lasts about four seconds. 

If even. 

Her calves are still aching, but she doesn’t back down and she doesn’t think and for one of those four seconds she’s absolutely positive Bellamy is going to kiss her. He doesn’t blink, just stays impossibly still, except for the flutter of his fingers and the way they push under the hem of her shirt and—

“Turn your fucking music down!”

They both jump back, like they’ve been shocked, Clarke wincing when her legs slam into the front of the couch. 

“Are you ok?” Bellamy asks, but she’s already nodding and any sense of joy has rather quickly morphed into something much worse. Regret. That’s the word for it. 

She’s neither a doctor nor an English teacher. 

“Fine, fine,” Clarke stammers. “I, uh—I’m going to turn the music down, ok?”

“Nah, Clarke—fuck that guy, c’mon, it’s…”  
  
“It’s really loud, Bell.”  
  
He’s setting a record for not blinking, she’s sure. He stares at her—a little appraising and just a hint wary, the moment drifting away as the song fades out. Clarke swallows. 

“Yeah, that’s true,” Bellamy agrees. It still doesn’t sound like the words he’s saying. “What do you think about celebratory David Bowie?”  
  
“Good call. You going to keep mixing?”  
  
“10-4, princess.”

“Idiot.”  
  
He grins, a quick twist of eyebrows and squeeze of his hand, but Clarke can’t help to think that the end of the school year may also be the end of something else. 

Octavia’s getting married in two weeks. 

* * *

Her dress is blue. 

And it makes her boobs look great, which Clarke isn’t focused on, but Raven’s mentioned it enough that eventually she agrees and she’s happy. 

Octavia is getting married. 

It’s sunny. It’s warm. There’s already music playing, soft and melodic outside the door where they’re waiting, Raven’s far-too-knowing stare boring into the back of Clarke’s head. 

“Don’t do that,” she warns, and she doesn’t have to turn to know Raven rolls her eyes. 

“I’m still not saying anything.”  
  
“Again, you didn’t have to.”  
  
“The experiment ends today, right?”  
  
“You say that like you don’t know.  
  
“And what did we learn?”  
  
Clarke turns around. It’s a mistake, she knows, but part of her has also been dreading today, which is pretty fucked up. All things considered. Octavia looks gorgeous. 

She’s got a five-dollar bet with Murphy that Bellamy will cry. 

Bellamy’s definitely going to cry. 

“You’re supposed to learn something in an experiment,” Raven says. “Even one as weird as this one. With all its flirting. You seriously haven’t made out with him yet?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Raven crows, Clarke grimacing at the admission that isn’t really that because everyone knows and she’s always known and—she bets he looks very good in his tuxedo. “Oh, god you’re an idiot,” Raven exhales. “But seriously, did you learn things? That he—”

“Yes to the Goo Goo Dolls. Slide is a very predictable favorite, but it’s been on the playlist since the get. He knows way more lyrics than he should. O had a pop punk phase too and he’s way too confident in his own rhythm, but sometimes he’s good at dancing. His mom used to listen to a lot of ballads and Karen Carpenter makes him feel emotions, but mostly at Christmas, so that hasn’t really affected the playlist and—what? You’re doing that thing with your face.”  
  
“Am I just?”  
  
“Nothing’s going to change, Rae,” Clarke cuts in. “We’re going to keep our musical preferences and our separate playlists and one of us will pay for no ads.”  
  
“Seriously, tell him how much you want to kiss him.”

“Shut up.”

And the photographer sounds like he’s on his way back. With Octavia. Who certainly does not want to hear about Clarke’s unrequited feelings for her brother. On her wedding day. 

Priorities, Clarke’s got them. 

“We had some fun and—well, O was kind of right. It was like getting a chance to…”  
  
“See into his music-loving soul?”  
  
“I really like Arcade Fire now.”  
  
Raven hums noncommittally and Clarke can practically hear the gears in her mind turning, but she’d been right about the photographer and maybe they’ll all just cry over Octavia. 

She’s beaming. 

And there will be hummingbird cake at this reception. 

“You guys ready?” Octavia asks. 

Clarke nods, ignoring Raven’s expression. “Definitely.”

* * *

He cries. 

Clarke gets five dollars. 

She doesn’t have any pockets in her dress. 

That feels like a sign. 

* * *

Strictly speaking, Clarke hasn’t been to too many weddings. A family friend when she was a kid. Her mom’s. This one. 

And yet. 

She’s positive that this is the most beautiful wedding she’s ever been to or could ever go to and part of that is because of the music and part is because of how often she’s noticed Bellamy smiling and most of it is because he keeps glancing her way. 

It’s a very blue dress. 

She’s still holding a five-dollar bill. 

And there is a whole schedule — toasts and more tears, posing for photos and ignoring the way her stomach flutters when she spends an inordinate amount of time glancing Bellamy’s direction. Octavia laughs. She and Lincoln flit from table to table, a hint of tradition in a wedding that is still _them_ and this family and—

“You want to dance?”  
  
She’s sitting at the head table, a glass of half-finished champagne in front of her and they haven’t cut the cake yet, but Clarke figures that's soon. Bellamy doesn’t blink. Again. One side of his mouth tugs up, fluttering his fingers in her space until she feels her own smile stretch and maybe her stomach should just be studied. 

There’s color on Bellamy’s cheeks. 

Clarke never got around to making that list. 

“Don’t leave hanging, princess,” Bellamy says. “They’re playing good music.”

He’s not wrong. 

It is good music. It’s...oddly familiar music. And Clarke had been too happy to really notice it before, but now that she’s listening, she hasn’t heard anything that’s not hers and—

“Oh my God, you idiot.”  
  
He laughs. Loud. And honest. And one-hundred percent hers. The sound sinking into the very center of her, where everything else she’s ever loved has taken root, a foundation for the rest of it, for all of it, for a family. 

A Spotify premium family plan. 

“You keep complimenting me like that and—”  
  
“—Did you do this?”  
  
“Did I do what?”

Her hand finds his, warm fingers and slightly callused skin. Clarke can’t stop shaking her head. It’s absurd. It’s vaguely romantic. 

“Is this…” she starts, but Bellamy smirks and she’s a lost cause. 

In a far more romantic sort of way. 

She jumps up, closing the already minimal amount of space between them and, to his credit, he doesn’t flinch. He might still be smirking. Clarke can feel the curve of his lips as soon as hers land on them, a little cautious at first, but that lasts about one verse of whatever Jonas Brothers song is playing and then it’s all mingled breaths and an arm slung around his shoulders, fingers in his hair and the sudden swipe of his tongue. 

Clarke arches her back, desperate to feel as much of him as she can, like that will ground her or remind her that it’s really happening. 

He tilts his head, changes angles and cups her face. It’s soft and bruising and a perfect contradiction that leaves her pushing up further in her heels, pulling on Bellamy’s curls until he groans against her and she’s going to think about that on loop for the rest of the night. 

The room spins. 

Clarke’s only seventy-two percent certain she’s not the one spinning. 

It doesn’t seem to end. They don’t seem to end. She can’t tell where his hands stop, moving across the expanse of her back and tracing across skin, as if he’s memorizing every shift, every way she rocks against him, trying to fill the space with him and them and—  
  
“Oh my God, finally,” Octavia cries. 

Clarke snickers, Bellamy’s head dropping to the curve of her jaw, leaving goosebumps in his wake. Still smirking. “Huh,” he muses. “Look at that.”  
  
“Don’t be smug,” Clarke chides.  
  
“I’m wooing you, was that not obvious?”  
  
She leans back, expecting a wholly confident expression, only to be met with something slightly hopeful and a little young and yearning and, really, the only thing to do is kiss him. Again. So, she does. Again. 

And it’s good and great and exactly what she thought it would be when she thought about this, far more often than she ever would admit to. 

But it’s also...something else. It’s the perfect chord and a well-constructed bridge and the song she wants to play on repeat forever, a favorite she knows she won’t get sick of, until the melody finds its way into her memory and her. 

Full stop. 

“Yeah, it was,” she whispers. “Is this—”  
  
“You know when you first offered to go half on this premium thing, I really was in it for the money.”  
  
“It’s like an extra ten bucks a month,” Miller yells. Both Octavia and Raven swat at his side.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Bellamy admits, “But I wanted to help O and I was sure this would help and then the playlist thing came up and I just—” He shrugs, another brush of his fingers over Clarke’s arm. “—Well, it was...you know you hum under your breath? Constantly. Every song. Even the ones you said you didn’t like. And you’ve got drawing playlists and I can’t believe how strongly you feel about All Time Low.”  
  
“They’re good,” Clarke shouts. More than a few members of the peanut gallery let out exasperated sighs. 

Bellamy kisses her hair. “I know. I know. And that’s been—the first time O talked about you, I figured you were some uptight—”  
  
“—Am I still being wooed? I am a fun person!”  
  
“Let me finish. You were old money and plans and structure and I thought I had to hate you on principle. But then. Clarke, you’re—ok, yeah, you like some structure and plans, but there’s so much more and it’s...every single time you start dancing to David Bowie I think I love you a little more.”

She’s not sure what sound she makes. 

An exhale and a sigh and a _give_ — into the feelings and the want and he’s not done. 

“So, uh, it hasn’t been easy. It took a lot of repeat plays. But yeah, to answer your question. This is the playlist and it’s our playlist, with...mostly your music because—” He scrunches his nose. It makes the freckles more obvious. “You’ve gotten under my skin, princess. So has your music. And the Frozen soundtrack isn’t that bad.”  
  
“Get that in writing,” Octavia demands. 

“Shut up, O,” Bellamy grumbles. She flips him off. The photographer takes a picture. “Anything to add?” he asks, an undercurrent of misplaced nerves that she doesn’t understand at first. She hasn’t said anything back. 

“Oh, yeah, yeah, that’s—” she starts, shaking her head and she kisses him before she answers. Third time’s the charm, or something. "I love you too.”

There are cheers. And louder music. A ridiculous bass line and shutter snaps and—

“We going to dance?”  
  
“Did I not ask first?”  
  
Clarke hums, already tugging him towards the floor and she’s got high hopes of his hand never leaving hers. For the rest of the night. If not longer. “Semantics,” she says. “C’mon, this is definitely a good song.”

* * *

Her favorite Jonas Brother is Joe. 

She tells him while they’re tugging clothes off, stumbling down the hallway of their apartment. 

“Don’t mention that again.”  
  
“10-4,” Clarke laughs, but the words get caught between them and she very quickly forgets about anything other than the noise Bellamy makes when she moves her hands into his hair. 

* * *

They never opt out of the family playlist. 

And it takes a few weeks for the algorithm to catch up, but eventually it’s a pretty even split, his and hers and theirs, all perfectly curated in replayable format. 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hai there. Long time Bellarke fic reader, first time Bellarke fic writer. I like adverbs and kissing and basing AU ideas off things that happen to me. Or: my husband and I just realized there was a family playlist on our joint Spotify account and keep trying to influence what songs end up there. 
> 
> If you read this, I think you're lovely. Come talk to me on on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down where I am also spiraling over Bellamy Blake's curls.


End file.
